I am not what you would call a “natural runner.” In fact, I have been known, on more than one occasion, to call running “dumb.”

I am a slow runner.

Really, the term “runner” is generous, as I jog at a pace that could best be described as an ambitious walk. But I set a goal to run the Disney marathon, and after 29 weeks of torture, I mean training, here we are.

Welcome to my Disney marathon. The most magical miles in the most magical place on Earth. Who am I to argue with the world’s most magical marketing?

Follow along with my train of thought over the course of those 26.2 magical miles.

Let’s go!

Marathon morning. It’s 3:00am, I am wide awake, we are rocking out to some serious Bonnie Tyler,  and I forgot to take a picture of where we parked.

Me and thousands of my closest, creatively costumed friends move towards the starting corral and huddle in the below-freezing, pre-dawn temperatures of central Florida in January.

We are cocooned in mylar blankets, which has the contrary effect of making me feel like a “real runner” and also a fraud. We are a pack of wanna-be disco balls awaiting the chance to shuffle forward for our back-of-the-pack corral.

I wish my Orange Bird costume included mittens. And a wool sweater. And maybe a scarf.

It’s 4:55 am. Our holding pen tightens. People who fear the balloon ladies, (who will sweep you off the course if you drop below the 16-minute per-mile pace) crush toward the starting line.

For the first time, my body reminds me of how early it is. It is saying, “What the hell are you doing? We’re not built for this. Do you know how far 26.2 miles is?! You don’t even drive that far without snacks.”

But after suppressing all logic and reason. I decide that I’m not here to listen to my freakin’ body. I’m here to push my stupid body. I’m here to run a marathon, damn it.

My early-morning self is surprisingly aggressive.

4:59am. Someone is making unnecessary  noises that are meant to be motivating over the loud speaker. The throngs pack in tighter. Now is a bad time to realize I probably need the porta potty. Too late. The fireworks blast off—

26.2 miles to go!

---

I’m off like a gazelle.

Okay, I’m off like a drunken rhinoceros.

But I feel like a gazelle, and that’s what counts. I will later come to realize that this means I started out too fast and should have conserved energy, but for right now, I am moving forward, and all forward motion counts. Speaking of counting, is it too early to start counting miles based on how many songs I have left?

Only 120. That’s reasonable.

The first few miles are a literal breeze.

No really, it’s freaking cold when you run this slow.

Six miles in. This is easy. My training has obviously been very effective. I can’t believe I was worried.  I feel amazing. This is amazing. That costume is amazing. I’m going to run 26 miles today. Need to slow down. Is it too soon to take a walk break?

Then reality sets in. Twenty miles to go. That’s like running from my house to Massachusetts. That’s like 45,000 steps. That’s like stupid.

What the hell am I doing?

Immediate thoughts: Who thought this was a good idea? Hey, look—that character line is really long. My toes hurt. Is that a cramp? I should drink some water. This is a good song. I should use the bathroom. Should I wait for a real bathroom? I paid for this? I don’t even like running. This is dumb. Did we take a picture of where we parked? This is incredible.

I’m obviously in the midst of a mid-life, mid-race crisis.

Let’s talk about that word. The “race.” I suppose it actually is a race, for some people. For me, it is a test of suffering, willpower and perseverance. And a chance to get some blisters.

Really, how can you resist?

We run through Cinderella’s castle. I smile for photos. I pretend I feel great. I look like I feel great. Every now and then I actually do feel great, but the moments are fleeting.

Some common synonyms for fleet are expeditious, fast, hasty, quick, rapid, speedy, and swift.

The opposite of me.

The running continues. Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. I’m deducting the 15 minutes I waited for porta-potties from my official time. I eat. We run. I drink. We run.

I am a hamster and the world is my wheel.

---

Thoughts are decidedly less gracious 20 miles in. This really is dumb. I hate running.  It’s probably unhealthy to run for this long.  I’m not going to be able to walk for three days. I’m never running again. Why do people do this more than once?

We arrive in Animal Kingdom. And it’s open. And the Everest ride is open. But I’m slow and terrified that riding a rollercoaster, mid-marathon, may be tempting the fate of the race gods. So we push on.

But then, suddenly, and without warning, it’s happening.

---

Less than 5k remaining! I’m running through Hollywood Studios and people are cheering. Holding signs. Clapping. For me! They are yelling out “Orange Bird!”

I am amazing. This is amazing. I’m definitely signing up for another marathon.

I am running a marathon!

I am a marathoner, damn it.  I love running! I am doing this! This is incredible!

Time for a beer.

No, really.

The balloon ladies are at least 45 minutes away. Or 15. Whatever. I’m stopping in Germany for a Hefeweizen.

On a list of questionable decisions leading to this moment, this one goes to the top. But the photo was epic.

---

Okay, time to refocus. A friend of mine who does marathons for fun, once told me that when the race gets noisy, you must be almost done.

And suddenly, it’s getting pretty loud. There’s a choir. There’s more motivating noises. There’s— the finish line.

Into the finish chute. An ugly cry is coming, I can feel it. All the feels. Is my shoe untied?  Slow down.

We purposefully leave a bit of a gap between us and the runners in front so we can get a good finish photo. (Some people would worry about their race times, but I don’t think this 11 seconds is going to make the difference between first and 11,482nd place).

I look up to my right and there’s Mickey, pointing right at me. Cue ugly cry.

Who’s screaming?

It’s me. I’m screaming. And crying. And laughing. I just ran a marathon.

---

Finish line. Medals. Marathon ears (which I didn’t know were a thing, and am instantly in love). Marathon tears. Orange cheese (if you know, you know.)

I’m still moving.

I should stop that now. Right now.

I ran a marathon.

I ran a freaking marathon.

And all I have left to do is take 13,762 more steps to find the car.

Turns out I took a picture after all.

Happy trails!